


how terrible it is to love something that death can touch

by vivelapluto



Category: Druck | SKAM (Germany), They Both Die at the End - Adam Silvera
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-03-07 10:23:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18871273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivelapluto/pseuds/vivelapluto
Summary: live your last day to the fullest, or david and matteo, two boys destined to die today and trying to make the best of it. (davenzi tbdate au)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oddlyqueer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddlyqueer/gifts).



_ Hello, _

_ I’m calling from Death-Cast. _

_ I regret to inform you that sometime _

_ in the next twenty-four hours _

_ you’ll be meeting an untimely death. _

_ On behalf of everyone here at  _

_ Death-Cast, we are so sorry to lose you. _

_ Live this day to the fullest, okay? _

* * *

 

 

David gets a call from DeathCast at just past midnight. It’s almost ironic that he gets it when he does, scrolling through a website where the most daring of people like to document their last day. He doesn’t want to pick up the phone—this is the warning of a lifetime. Literally. 

Scratch that; it’s not even a warning. Because you can usually use warnings as a precaution to avoid something. This ominous alarm rings for something completely and entirely inevitable.

His breaths come more shallow as reality sets in. He’s going to die. He’s going to pick up that phone and some robotic person on the other side is going to tell him that today is his last day and—

It’s still ringing. 

David’s phone is on the other side of the room, and somehow that makes it so much worse. His legs shake as he walks over, closing out of  _ CountDowners,  _ where he’d been watching a college junior attempt to find a home for his dog before he passed away, and making his way to the desk. 

Perching himself on the armrest of the chair, he stares at the screen. DEATH-CAST, reads the caller ID—must they put it in all capital letters? That plus the alarm is so horribly loud that he almost can’t bear it.

He presses the talk button. Picks up the phone. Resists the urge to throw it at the wall until the screen shatters. 

By some miracle, his shaking fingers manage to press the  _ Talk  _ button. He doesn’t say anything; is he supposed to?

Eventually, he utters a soft, slightly cracked, “hello?”

“Hello! I’m calling from Death-Cast. I’m Angela. You there, Wyatt?” 

Wyatt.

_ Wyatt?  _

That’s not his name, that means—

David’s breath catches. “I’m not—” His heart skips a beat. “That’s not me!” he almost gasps out. “You’ve got the wrong person, you’ve—”

His heart breaks for this unknown Wyatt, but still, he cannot stop the flood of relief that rises. “My name’s David. Not Wyatt. It’s—Sorry, I think you have the wrong number, or name, or. . .” 

_ It’s not me. It’s not me. It’s not me,  _ is all he can think.

There’s the distinct sound of a keyboard clicking on the other end, before the woman—Angela—speaks again. “Ah. Wyatt was the young man I just got off the phone with—I don’t think he took the news very well, unfortunately. You’re David Schreibner, right?” 

David bites his lip to keep from cursing. His grip tightens on the phone, so much so that his knuckles are white.

No.

_ No. _

“Yes.”

Angela doesn’t say anything else for a long, long moment.

Or maybe it’s just a few seconds. David can’t tell anymore.

But then she starts to speak and he’s watched  _ CountDowners  _ so many times that he can mouth the words as she says them. “David, I regret to inform you that sometime in the next twenty-four hours you’ll be meeting an untimely death. And while there isn’t anything we can do to suspend that, you still have a chance to live.” That’s when David stops listening, because he doesn’t want to hear this.

This can’t be happening.

Angela drones on about how he should make the most of his last day, or whatever manufactured, scripted drivel she’s supposed to tell people, and maybe there’s sympathy in her tone, but David doesn’t care anymore. He almost opens his mouth to ask her  _ why, how;  _ he’s heard of people on  _ CountDowners  _ who’ve tried, but. . . 

But he’s heard of enough of them to know it’s futile. No one knows that. Or they know, and don’t tell anyone. They didn’t even tell the former President, who had hid in a bunker to avoid death and ultimately ended up being betrayed by one of his own Secret Service agents. All Death-Cast would give him was the date.

Today.

Today he was going to die. 

Angela’s still talking, going on about how David has to prepare for his funeral, add whatever requests he wants for when he’s . . .

When he’s  _ dead. _

“And Wyatt, on behalf of everyone here at Death-Cast, we are so sorry to lose you. Live this day to the fullest, okay?”

David does curse then, because she can’t be sorry to lose him, not if she just called him by the wrong name,  _ again. _

“Fuck, it’s David. Not Wyatt. I’m  _ David.”  _

The herald has probably made a thousand of these calls, and some small part of David registers this. She doesn’t deserve his anger. But that doesn’t stop him from hanging up while she’s still mid-apology.

It’s rude. He knows.

But he could die at any second. He could turn away from his desk chair and trip and slam his head on the footboard of the bed or he could walk downstairs on his way out of the apartment or some unknown person could break in and murder him and—

David leans against the wall, sinking down to the floor. He tugs at his sweater sleeves as reality truly, wholly sets in. There’s no magical quest that he can go on, no dragon to fight that would offer him a second chance at life. No genie to offer him three wishes to save himself. No. David is going to die today. It’s absolute. It’s settled.

He wonders who would even miss him. Who would even care. Laura, but she’s still at the hospital, comatose and unresponsive. Still, he has to say goodbye to her. She’s his only family, after all, and though she’s not awake now, David owes her everything. There’s Amira, for being one of the only people who hadn’t ignored him, for sitting next to him in art class talking to him about how she wanted to change the world one day.

But that’s all.

That’s it. 

Two people. It’s kind of sad, really. 

David pulls his knees to his chest. It’s dangerous, probably the one thing he shouldn’t do, but he thinks about Future David. Future David, who was supposed to get his driver’s license and go on a road trip with Amira and travel the world and. . . and fall in love, and make a thousand more drawings, and maybe one of them would get noticed, maybe he would have had an art show, maybe he’d be dating someone and they’d show up at the museum, and he’d have admirers and friends and maybe he would have had a line of people who wanted to hug him goodbye at his funeral.

But he’ll never get to be Future David. There would be no traveling and no drawing and no partying with friends while they all got high and laughed unabashedly, and there would never be a day when he would sit by Laura’s bedside as she finally recovered, opening her eyes. 

David slides away from the wall, laying back on the floor and staring at the ceiling. It’s do or die now, literally.

No. Not even that.

Do, and then die.

  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Death-Cast is calling Matteo as he’s taking a drag from a cigarette, sitting in an alley and forcing himself to laugh at a dumb joke Abdi’s made that wasn’t even funny in the first place. The ringtone is coming from his pocket, that too-loud Death-Cast ringtone that everyone knows far too well—Matteo included. Carlos and Abdi immediately stop laughing, staring at the phone as though it could explode.

It might as well have, honestly, with the way Jonas gingerly regards it before clearing his throat and saying, “You gotta pick it up, Matteo.” 

“The hell I do,” Matteo drawls in reply, forcing himself to maintain his usual couldn’t-care-less tone of voice. His heart is pounding fast, erratic beats that have nothing to do with the nicotine and everything to do with the fact that the phone is still ringing.

And then it stops.

“Maybe it was a mistake,” Carlos says, but he’s barely finished speaking before the ringing starts again.

Carlos doesn’t say anything else after that.

Matteo isn’t hopeful. He doesn’t know statistics or anything, but Death-Cast messing up alerts is far from common news. 

His hands are shaking and a buzzing panic takes over his mind, because the uncertainty of it all hits him like a truck. He doesn’t know how he’s going to go, just that he is. His life isn’t flashing before his eyes; it’s not like the movies. There isn’t even enough life that Matteo’s lived for him to have a substantial flashback. 

The phone rings again.

Matteo stares at it, apprehensive, but it’s Jonas who picks it up. Matteo doesn’t know whether to punch him, toss his cigarette lighter in his direction, or cry.

“Who are you calling for?” His neck twitches, head turning towards Matteo barely a centimeter. It’s a painful, most likely involuntary movement, but it confirms the panic that’s now caused Matteo’s breathing to become shallow. “Hold up, hold up. I’m not him.  _ Hold up.  _ Wait a sec.” He holds out the phone. “You want me to hang up, Matteo?”

Matteo doesn’t know. It’s not like he needs to take this call to make sure Death-Cast isn’t actually calling to tell him he won the lottery. He snatches the phone from Jonas, pissed and confused. A wave of nausea overcomes him, but he bites it back, stiffly walking a few paces away from the rest of the group. It’s not like privacy really matters, though—they all know what’s coming. 

“Yeah?” he finally says, wincing as his voice cracks slightly.

“Hello. This is Victor from Death-Cast calling to speak with Matteo Florenzo.”

He butchers the last name, but there’s no point in correcting him. No one else is around to carry the Florenzi name. “Yeah, it’s me.”

“Matteo, I regret to inform you that sometime within the next twenty-four hours—”

“Twenty-three hours,” he interrupts, pacing back and forth from one end of the alley to the other. “You’re calling me after one.” It’s bullshit. Other Deckers got their alert an hour ago. Maybe if Death-Cast called an hour ago Matteo wouldn’t have been idling in an alley after getting high with Abdi and Carlos. 

“Yes, you’re right. I’m sorry,” Victor says.

Matteo bites his lip, not wanting to take his problems out on a guy just trying to do his job, even though he can see no logical reason anyone would even  _ apply  _ for this job in the first place. He takes a slightly delirious moment to pretend that he has a future. In no universe can he imagine waking up and deciding he wants his life to consist of being a herald—calling people from twelve to three a.m. to tell them they’re going to die. But Victor had, and so had countless others. 

“Matteo, I regret to inform you that sometime in the next twenty-three hours you’ll be meeting an untimely death. While there isn’t anything I can do to suspend that, I’m calling to inform you your options for the day. First of all, how are you doing? It took you awhile to answer; is everything okay?”

Matteo stifles a snort. Victor wants to know  _ how he’s doing.  _ As if. He can hear it in the stunted tone of the question; he doesn’t actually care about him any more than he does the other Deckers he’s inevitably going to call the minute he hangs up with Matteo. 

“I don’t know how I’m doing.” Matteo squeezes his phone so he doesn’t throw it against the graffiti-spattered brick wall across the alleyway. He looks over his shoulder at where Abdi, Carlos, and Jonas stare at him. “Just tell me my options.”

Victor tells him the forecast for the day (rain; Matteo’s not surprised at all), special festivals he has no intention of attending (especially not a yoga class on the High Line, regardless of rain), formal funeral arrangements, and restaurants with the best Decker discounts if he used today’s code. 

“How do you guys know?” Matteo interrupts suddenly. Maybe Victor will take pity on him and he can clue Abdi, Carlos, and Jonas in on the big secret. “The End Days. How do you know? Some list? A crystal ball? A calendar from the future?” Everyone was always speculating on how Death-Cast receives this life-altering information. Carlos talked often about the theories he read online, like Death-Cast consulting a band of psychics, and some even more outlandish ones with aliens shackled to bathtubs, forced by the government to report End Days. 

“I’m afraid that information isn’t available to heralds, either,” Victor claims. “We’re curious as well, but it’s not knowledge we need to perform our job.” Another flat, emotionless answer. Matteo is willing to bet his life that he knows and can’t say at the risk of losing his job.

A beat later, Matteo realizes he can’t even bet his life because he won’t be  _ alive  _ by the end of the day.

Something in him snaps.

“Yo, Victor, be a person for just one minute. I don’t know if you know, but I’m seventeen. Three weeks from my eighteenth birthday. Doesn’t it piss you off that I’ll never . . .” He trails off, not even sure what he would have wanted to do with his future anyway, “I don’t know. Live my life? You’re just chilling on your little throne in your little office because you know you’ve got a few decades ahead of you, right?”

On the other end, Matteo can hear Victor clearing his throat. “You want me to be a person, Matteo? You want me to get off my throne and get real with you? Okay. An hour ago I got off the phone with a woman who cried over how she won’t be a mother anymore after her four-year-old daughter dies today. She begged me to tell her how she can save her daughter's life, but no one has that power. And then I had to put in a request to the Youth Department to dispatch a cop just in case the mother’s responsible, which, believe it or not, is not the most disgusting thing I’ve done for this job. Matteo, I feel for you, I do. But I’m not at fault for your death, and I unfortunately have many more of these calls to make tonight. Can you do me a solid and cooperate?”

_ Damn. _

Matteo cooperates for the rest of the call, but all he can think about is the mother whose daughter will never attend the elementary school two streets down. At the end of the call, Victor gives him that company line he’s grown used to hearing from all the new shows and movies incorporating Death-Cast into the characters’ day-to-day lives. “On behalf of Death-Cast, we are sorry to lose you. Live this day to the fullest.” 

Matteo doesn’t know who hangs up first, but it doesn’t matter. The damage has been done—will be done. Today is his End Day. Matteo Armageddon. 

He turns on his heel, stuffing his phone into his jeans pocket and storming towards where they’ve parked their bikes. “You guys can’t follow me,” he says, picking his bike up. “You get that, right?”

“Nah, man, we’re with you, just—”

“Not happening,” Matteo snaps. “I’m a ticking time bomb, and even if you’re not blowing up when I do, you might get burned. Maybe literally.”

“You’re not ditching us,” Jonas says. “Where you go, we go.”

Abdi nods, his head jerking to the right, like his body is betraying his instinct to follow Matteo. He nods again, no twitch this time. 

No one says anything as they get on their bikes, riding off the curb. This is the wrong day for Matteo to have left his helmet behind. Every jostle against the sidewalk sends his heart racing. Abdi, Carlos, and Jonas can’t stay with Matteo for the entire day. But they’d been with him since he’d first arrived at the foster home, silent and bedraggled and desolately alone. They didn’t turn their backs on each other.

“Let’s go home.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading!! here's yet another au i probably won't finish, and sorry in advance for the lack of updates, but i do hope you like it!


End file.
